So Much Information, So Little Information.

The ghastly tale of Susan and Josh Powell, reads like a dense murder-mystery at times, and at others, like a long grocery list.  As you peruse the 30,000 investigation documents released by the West Valley City Police Department, it feels like you're watching a television crime thriller, and conversely like you are glancing at a digital clock as it blinks from 3:31 AM to 3:32 AM.

Many of the pages released are redacted, leaving the reader to scan through reams of black pages, and scores of whitewashed names, but the text is rich with information, some of it engrossing, some of it uncomfortably close, some of it banal.

In a section tabbed photos, you see hundreds, if not thousands of evidence photos, snapped by crime scene investigators.  Many of the images you would expect a cop to take.  Like the out of focus photo of a large bar-b-que tool.  "Could this be a murder weapon?"  A crime scene tech might ask as he or she opens the aperture of the camera and searches for clues in Susan's disappearance.  Or the plastic bag police found hidden in the floor boards of Josh's nondescript Town and Country Mini-van.  The van in which he took his kids on a midnight run, to the frozen desert, the night his wife disappeared.   Inside the white, 13 gallon garbage bag is a two foot by 1 foot section of burnt dry wall.  The frightening possibilities are only outnumbered by the likely, humdrum explanations.

The truth is most of the photos are mundane, a shot of plastic jars of vitamins and supplements from inside the Powell's kitchen cabinets.   A snap shot of a can or concentrated orange juice, a photo of a tin of Altoids.  The tedious documentation by police that shows just how intricately they investigated the frustrating disappearance 

As I flicker through the dearth of images, I remember feeling uncomfortable, as if  I am forced to peer  inside the home of an unsuspecting neighbor as she prepare dinner, or carelessly watch television on her sofa.

There are photos, of Susan's grass stained running shoes and her jewelry.  There are pictures inside her most personal spaces, of her unmade bed, of her toiletries strewn carelessly across her bathroom vanity.  These are places that only Susan had been, things only Susan has worn, and now things and places, at which a dozen police officers, and additionally a dozen reporters are now leering.

Also tucked away inside the puzzle of information stored on a 24 Gig hard drive, are all the crevices in which police have peeked during their search.  Officers, it appears, spent some time tracking down a tip from an unnamed prison inmate, who, looking for reduced jail time, suggested that Josh had had some sort of relationship with a woman, who may have been a stripper and who could potentially have information about Susan's whereabouts   One of the documents includes a list of exotic dancers, their names (redacted) including their stage alias (redacted) and the club at which they danced (redacted).  If I'm correct, it looks like that inmate, acting as a confidential informant for police, called one of his associates on a recorded line, looking for the "real," name of "that b**ch."  His words, not mine.

That inmate makes references to Josh being involved, "with the wrong people," there is also a letter from someone referring to a potential contract taken out on Josh's life.  None of the tips appear to have led to any solid leads, but they are indications of how police walked down every proverbial alley in the labyrinthine tale of Susan Cox Powell.

A transcript of a police interview with one of Susan's co-workers, shows the delicate dance officers did as they attempted to reveal everything about Susan's personality.  The officer asks the male co-worker if knew that Susan had told friends she had had dreams about him, and if the man had ever had a "physical" relationship with the missing woman, "me, no, no."  He responds with surprise.

As you scroll through all the pages, it appears that police have uncovered just about everything regarding Susan and Josh, from the shoes they fastened to their feet, to the vitamins that they put in their mouths.  Everything that is, except the answer to that single, simple, and sadly, it turns out, impossible question.



 

The Ghastly Ghost

Even after his sickening murder-suicide, Josh Powell, continues to thrust himself, zombie-like, into our lives.  Like a reoccurring rash or chronic back pain, Powell's repugnant visage seems to make a return every 6 months or so.

Most recently, he infected the sleepy community of Salem, Oregon.  After a tip from the father of Susan Cox-Powell, the West Valley City Police, packed their bags and made the 13 hours trip to the Pacific Northwest, to root through another open field, poke their heads into more deep, dark craggy holes, and jam their glove covered hands into thistle, thorny rose bushes, and spiky weeds.

Officers didn't find anything, so they slung their backpacks onto another uncomfortable bed, in another nameless motel, and stuffed it carelessly with dob kits, hiking boots and undershirts, then made the 800 mile drive back home to West Valley.  

You likely know the excruciating tale of Susan, Josh, Chuck, Steven and the boys.  Missing woman, suspected husband, brave dad, perverted father, murdered children and fiery suicide.

The last time Josh made an unwelcome appearance was Super Bowl Sunday.  My girlfriend Amanda, who is now my wife and I where prepping snacks for a party when my boss, Jen Dahl called, "Josh Powell killed his children and himself by burning down his house, can you go to Washington?"   After I shook my head, and closed my mouth, I packed a bag for Sea-Tac.

In the airport, as I waited for my plane to depart, I caught a glimpse of  a nondescript play run by the New England Patriots, before hoisting my briefcase onto my shoulder and bouncing around in a line as people scanned their smart phones, talked about Tom Brady, and whispered with hands over mouths about Powell, "he killed his kids too?!"

Before that it was his father's arrest on voyeurism charges, then his dad's weird obsession with Susan, and the interviews,  and the child custody hearings.  

Every 6 months, the chinless Powell, with his spotty goatee and pouting, moist eyes, would saunter into our proverbial eye sight, like an unwelcome house guest, bowling into the living room in nothing but a terry cloth robe, eating the last piece of pizza.

The response to a Powell resurrection is always, exasperatedly, methodically the same.  I have about 10 names in my phone's contact list, under the heading "Powell."  When Josh makes news, the first call is always to Chuck Cox, Susan's father, then to Josh's sister, then the police department.  If you can't get any answers there, your last resort is Cox family attorney Anne Bremner.    Whenever a new Powell revelation pops up, reporters rush down the same worn, and tired path, and usually find the exact same worn and tired answers.  

The Salem lead didn't unveil Susan's whereabouts, so Josh, and the tale of the awfulness he brought to the world is put to bed.  Eventually, we will hear from him again.  I don't know for what or why, but when we do, everyone: reporters, police, Susan's family, will pull themselves out of bed, drag themselves off the sofa, dig their thumbs into their clinched eyes, take a deep breath, and start the tired task of digging in a wheat field or calling Chuck Cox for comment.  

I'm the step-fatherer!

It was about 5:15 when he stumbles up behind the horde of cameras and reporters, his tall Pompadour
balanced on the top of his head, and wiggling back and forth atop his noggin, like a sleepy cowboy, after a long horse back ride.  His hair would waggle, whenever he would emphasis each drunken syllable.  "I was the step-fatherer." He stammers as we interview an animated neighbor who is passionately complaining about all the traffic, and cars speeding down her street. "There's kids here 24-7!"  she shouts, with her fist raised up to her face, drawing tiny circles in the air with them, like an old-timey pugilist.

At about 4 PM, three girls, ages 9,11, and 14 where walking to a nearby swimming pool when a man who police say was texting on his phone hit all three of them.  The girls were all taken to the hospital, but are, as of today, in stable condition.

While Dianna tries, rather incompletely,  to paint the picture of a terrible accident that crashes nearly into her front yard, the Pompadour, inserts his slurry cocktail of disconnected words into the interview, "He weers Texting, when he hut them kidzzz, oh, he's dead!"  Dianna, stammers and stutters a bit, taken aback by the interruption then like a lawnmower with a fresh gallon of gas, she begins revving up her tale again.  The Pompadour, I guess certain that he should be the one in the dim television spotlight, announces loudly, "I'm was the step fatherer in the one of the kidzzz!"

That may have been true, but all the reporters silently and collectively decide that interviewing a dangerously intoxicated man would do little to help advance the sad story, so we simply ignored him.  Which doesn't go over well, "Well F*$k you!"  He spits, "F**k you!"  Dianna, slipping into neighborhood mom mode, figuratively slaps his hand, "you watch your mouth young man!" she blurts, "I'm the step sister...uh...fatherer, of Stacy...so....F**k you!" Dianna, folds her arm, and glares, "what did you say young man," (as an aside, I think it's important to note, that the general consensus among reporters is that Dianna might have been a tad tipsy as well) "I'm the dad, step dader...and F**k you B**tch!"

When I watch the video of the exchange later that night, I catch a glimpse of my face in the corner of the camera's lens.  It is a combination of shock, amusement, and a certain, gleeful curiosity about "where is this going next!"  When the Pompadour, begins slamming his two fists against the aging, rusty, chain link fence,  screaming, "I just wanna, needa, F**king ride, the hosssspitable!" I should have been concerned that this thing might have turn violent, but rather, I was somewhat taken in by the wiggly shelf of hair, bouncing and bobbing on top of his head.  One of the other reporters had had enough, and as I was hypnotized by the follicle ballet, Alex Cabrero from Ch. 5 chimes, in, "hey, what's your problem?"  Things might have gotten ugly if Lt. Justin Hoyal, of the Unified Police Department hadn't intervened and escorted the guy away.

At some point during the melee I had received a call from the station, I click the answer button but don't say anything, as I watch the human house fire burning in front of me.  After Hoyal escorts the man up the street,  I quickly answered the phone, "oh hello, I forgot you were there." On the other end of the line was the producer of the 10 PM news cast, "are you ok?  Do we need to send help?  Did you make someone mad?"  "Oh don't worry about me," I said, "He was just yelling at everyone."

Google It.

As three dozen people rattle into the gymnasium at Lakeview Elementary in Provo, they are buzzing with questions.  "When will I get free Internet?" "Will you provide telephone service ?"  "Do I have to pay for installation?"  And peppered among the heavy coated Provo residents, curious about what channels they will get, are blazer wearing Google engineers, public relations experts and image consultants.  They are pleasant, knowledgeable, and patient...to a point.

Last week Provo city announced Google would swoop in and take over the city's troubled fiber network.  An aging infrastructure, that the city built 10 years ago with much fan-fair, but the thing never made any money, and with a 20-30 million dollar bond hanging around the city's neck, the Fiber is now strangling Provo.

Google will pay $1 for the system and the city will still have to pay for the bond, but the internet colossus will upgrade the system and offer free internet to all Provo residents for at least 7 years.  Google will also offer a gig of internet service for $70.  A gig, is about 1000 times faster than regular internet.

Google is a company unlike any the world has ever seen, and when people think about "big business," they don't couple Google in with those meanies at  Exxon, or Goldman Sachs.  Google is "one of the good guys," Google helps me book my flights, order boots on line, and tells me how old Tony Romo is.  We've all heard about the ping pong tables and massages at Google headquarters, their mission statement says, "don't be evil."  I mean, how could you not love these guys.

The head of Community Affairs for Google, Matt Dunne represents all of that, he is affable, funny, and smart.  He has the polished exterior of a Vermont politician, because, well, that's what he is.  Dunne served 4 terms in the Vermont House of Representatives, and ran for governor in 2010, after his loss, he became a Googler, that's what Google employees call themselves.

When I interview Dunne after the meeting, he folds his hands in front of his waist, and stares with uncomfortable confidence into my eyes.  His answers are precise, practiced, and as you might imagine, always "on message," as they say in the public relations game.

During the question and answer period, the day before the city council is to vote on handing the fiber over to Google, the public relations team, including Dunne, is pleasant, happy and congenial, when they get to talk about the company and all the great options for the residents.  When the questions get a little tougher, like: "What if Google decided to abandon the system?" or "Why is this company with bottomless pockets only paying a dollar for a 20 million dollar network?"  The are not so pleasant.  "That's just, just the way it is," says Dunne,coolly, forcefully, yet politely.

Google is well on their way to becoming the most powerful company in the history of the world.  They own just about everything on the web including your Gmail, Youtube, and the website Blogger, which publishes this blog.   Google now wants to own the infrastructure that delivers the internet, hence, the purchase of Provo's system.

The company archives ever website on the web, and if you have Gmail, they scan each message you send and receive, for personal data, the company says to create relevant text ads for each user.  The company was recently fined when it was discovered their Google mapping cars where collecting data about users as they take pictures of your street.

In the meeting, Mayor John Curtis, seems absolutely giddy as he praises the company in front of the crowd of about 50 people, as Dunne and the other Googlers, smile humbly.    Mayor John Curtis, wasn't in charge when the system was established, and he may have found the very best way to untangle the city, at least partly, from the constricting fiber line.

Dunne receives another slightly uncomfortable question from a plain but pleasant mom, she says she likes the service the city is providing, and she doesn't want to pay extra for a gig she says she won't use.  Dunne, squeezes his lips tightly together, and blinks impatiently, "well," he says, as he shakes his head, "there are, of course, other internet providers out there," he smiles as he points to another hand raised in the audience.  "I'm not saying that, I mean," she stammers, eager to be back in Google's good graces.  It's as if she realizes, she may be a resident of Provo, but she lives in Google's world.

Better Late Than Never

"Reporting live from the Memorial for the Sweat boys, back to you."

It's one of those moments with which every reporter, news editor, photographer, or manager has had to deal.  You are caught flat-footed, the competition is "there," and you are not.

Coleman Sweat, 14

In this case, it is a sober memorial service for two boys, Coleman, 14, and Trevan, 7, the brothers are killed in a freak accident last week, when the pair step onto an icy cornice, that tumbles down a slight incline, some 50 feet to a meadow below, killing both of them.

In our newsroom, filled with mom's and dads, these stories always sting, but we are required to cover them and when Executive Producer Jeremy Laird and I glance at the screen above his desk, we watch as the camera of our competition pans a large school auditorium teeming with mourners we both know, I'm heading to Heber City, more than an hour away.  "It might be over when you get there" Jeremy says exasperated, "but see what you can get."

Trevan Sweat, 7

"There is a camel that is going to show up Brewvies at 7," I exclaim into my cell phone to the assignment desk editor, as Photographer Dan Kovach and I barrel down I-15 towards Wasatch County, "if we don't make it to the memorial in time, maybe I could do that," I suggest, as a backup story.   I'm pretty certain we'll never make it to the sight of the service before tearful moms, and glassy eyed middle school students, hug one last time, then head into the numbing, brutal cold.

As we careen through the first stop light in Francis and the Diary Keen, in downtown Heber, we spot a relentless line of cars slowly marching out of the parking lot of Rocky Mountain Middle School.

"It's over," Dan breaths out, "What do you want to do?" He asks hopelessly.  "Let's go in and look around," I shut my eyes pressing my thumbs against my lids.

As we pass the trophy case, and the "administrative" office we find ourselves pressing through a sea of emotional teens and parents, towards the auditorium, while everyone else is leaving it.  As I step into the empty cavernous box, a few balloons bounce erratically against the ceiling rafters, the seats, usually overflowing with middle-schoolers rooting for their classmates in a messy, yet raucous basketball game are barren, save a few discarded programs and a forgotten woolen stocking cap.

Cornice collapse (Courtesy Deseret News)

A few moments ago, our story was in this room.  Filled, by all accounts, with a thousand people, singing, praying and remembering those two boys, but for me, only the orphaned winter hat remains.

As Dan tries to salvage the story, he aims his camera at the crowd, taking a few frames of video, as the mass of people vacate, drained emotionally by what was a touching memorial.

"Were the Sweats here?" I ask a gentle-faced farmer in a beige Carhartt work coat, and worn but sturdy jeans as he passes by, "They were," he pronounces in his distinct Utah accent, found outside the confines of Salt Lake and Park City, "In fact they were just outside a minute ago," he points his thick rugged index finger towards the back doors of the school, where I see a handful of people lingering and hugging with candles in their hands.

As I push my way through the glass doors, I see dozens of people huddled together, as ice smoke rises from their mouths, holding candles and stomping their feet on the broad expanse of pavement in the back of the school.

Dan takes artful pictures of flickering flames, as I begin to survey what remains of this possible story. "Are any members of the Sweat family still here?" I inquire to a man who has been moving gracefully through the crowd, shaking hands and hugging tearful teens as he heads towards his car, "Sweats?  The Sweats are everywhere," he says kindly, pointing to a throng of men in cowboy hats, and women in boots, "they're all Sweats," he says palm open, "Is Jason here?" I say, asking if the father of the boys is still in attendance.  "The man squints, as his eyes pan the crowd "Let's see," he tallies the faces, "yup, that's him," he points towards a tall man in a black baseball cap, patting other men on their backs and getting embraced by little old ladies who probably knew him since he, "was this high."

As I slowly drift towards the grieving father, I hear his attempts at normalcy  "What weight will ya wrestle at next year?" he asks matter-of-factly to a nervous boy nearly 14 years old.  I interrupt, "Jason, I'm Chris Jones from 2 News, could I talk to you about your boys?" I ask softly, "sure," he says eager to tell me that Trevan had "a strong heart," and just about everyone, "loved," Coleman.

As Dan finishes up with a few pictures of Jason, I hold my chilled fingers over my aching ears, think about how well this dad seems to be holding up, and begin to fashion a script in my head for the 10 PM newscast.

Wrong Place, Wrong Time

As the tires lock, the friction of the road against the rubber kicks a dense, blue smoke, and bits of gravel spewing, richocheting and skipping off the pavement.  The lanky middle-aged man with wispy grey hair and awkward glasses, leaps like a Jack-in-the Box from his driver's side door of his late model mini-van, and bounds towards me.  His gate is wide, his arms swinging as if he is a competitive speed walker. "Hmm," I wonder aloud, "why's he in such a hurry?" When he grabs the sleeve of my shirt and wheels me off the porch like a discus thrower, I realize he is in a hurry to assault me.

I was standing on the porch of an historic home in downtown Moss Point, Mississippi.  This antebellum estate, in 1995, was at the center of much debate for this waterfront town nuzzled in the boot heel of the south.  Moss Point town father's wanted to buy it and preserve it, but the owner, who was letting the property rot, was asking for a lot of money.  My job on this lazy, sweltering Sunday was to take a few pictures of the majestic mess for our early news cast.

With my camera in tow, I decide to grab a few pictures from up close, and that meant, on the property, which, of course is a no-no.  This is private property, and I was technically trespassing.  As a young journalist, I was still learning and for some reason had forgotten, one of the most important rules of journalism, "thou shalt not trespass."

When the owner of the home, passing by noticed a gawky young man in a shirt and tie with a camera on his porch, he was not happy.

After he flings me off the weary, drooping wooden stoop, I land firmly on my feet.  The man in his early 60's is spry, he bounds himself from the rotting wooden steps ninja style, and lands on the crumbling sidewalk, knees bent, fists clinched and held high in front of his face, knuckles up, backs of his hands facing me.  Both hands move in circular motion in front of me, like a turn of the century pugilist preparing for a bare knuckle showdown, in a long closed meat packing plant in the Bowery district of New York.  I can almost hear the old timey radio announcer calling the battle, "Jack O'Leary, ready to pummel his opponent with the ol' Harlem Hay maker!"

He lunges towards me as his wife shrieks, "Harvey, No!  Your heart!"  He latches onto my sleeve again, ripping it cleanly at the seam exposing my entire arm from the shoulder down.  If he'd managed to tear off the other sleeve I would have looked like a "Greaser," from the movie "The Outsiders."

I'm shocked that I find myself in a full-fledged showdown, I haven't been in a fight since I was 10, when I got into a grapple with another kid named Chris at Summer camp over the top bunk.  I remember popping him three times in the face, and when he started crying in pain, I began crying, pumped full of fear, adrenaline and shame.

This most recent dust up is quickly breaking down into a farce.  The man, with my blue dress shirt sleeve in his hand begins frantically slapping me with it, then darts his left hand towards my tie and violently jerks it from left to right, dragging my head along with it.  I grasp his wrist, with both hands, and vice grip my palm around the fingers on his left hand, bending his wrist back towards his body, the  leverage forcing him him to his knees, then I reel back with my right fist ready to take what is clearly a clean shot to his nose, when I hear, "Freeze! Police!" as I crane my neck behind me, I see a portly, white haired, Moss Point police officer, lumbering towards the skinny, sweaty mass of testosterone grappling in the blazing, humid, Mississippi sun.  His gun belt is loosely buckled to make room for his ample belly, and as he trips up the curb, he desperately jerks at the leather belt flopping around his waist. As he reaches us, he has both hands on his belt to keep it, gun, cuffs and all,  from dropping with a thud around his knees.

"What IN THE HELL, are you boys doin'?" he blurts in his heavy southern drawl.  "Harvey, Lord, man are you outta yer mind," he scowls at the man,  "and you Chris Jones, gettin' ready to punch an ol' man?  are you fellas crazy." he admonishes both of us.

"He's breaking into my house! He's trying to break into my house!" the man wheezes as his wife cries frantically from behind the couples mini-van, "Bull*&t!" I scream, "this wild beast just jumped on me like a chimpanzee from a tree!"  "God*&^m it boys, retreat!"  I un-cock my fist and let go of his hand, as I feel a warm, slim stream of blood slowly roll down my cheek.  Sometime during our ridiculous rag doll melee he must have nicked me with a fingernail causing a minor injury.

I know this officer.  Let's just say if you put him in a lineup with other officers and asked, "which of these guys likely spends the most time sleeping in his patrol cruiser?" Nine out of 10 people would finger him.
"OK, OK," he runs his fingers through his thick mane of grey hair.  Searching for a way NOT to have to make two arrests and fill out reams of paperwork at the end of his 12 hour shift.

"Chris, you was just knockin' on the door right?" the officer points at me, clarifying the story he just made up, "and Harvey, you was just confused, thought he was gonna burglarize the place right?" He thrusts his finger at my opponent, "It was just a misunderstanding, right fellas?  No harm no foul."  Both of us panting deeply, and dragging the back of our hands across our foreheads, agree, spending the night in jail, would not be a good way to end the weekend.

"Yeah," I say as I dab the blood on my cheek with my index finger "he just got confused."
"Right," Harvey adds, as he wrenches his wrist back and forth, trying to force out the pain, "He's just comin' for a visit, he didnt' mean nothing."

As we shake hands, Harvey hands me my shirt sleeve, "sorry" he says awkwardly as he stuffs the fabric into my hand, and turns towards his bawling wife.  I dab the blood on my cheek with the sleeve then jam it into my back pocket, "Damn, Chris, It's Sunday, I ain't got time for this," the round officer says as he loosens his gun belt and throws it over his shoulder, I'm going fishin' with my cousin in 20 minutes." He shakes his head as he looks at me with a scowl, then his eyes light up, as he remembers, "He's bringing brats!"





 

Getting Real

"There's someone outside who wants to see you," Special Projects Manager Steve Hertzke says, with heightened urgency, "something about a story you're doing tonight?"  he continues.  As I glance out the plate glass windows of the 2News studios, I see him, slim, short and pale.  His stocking hat is pulled down low over his ears, furrowed eyebrows and squinted eyes.  he is angry and pacing, not in long wild strides, but in short controlled steps, three to the left, three to the right.  I know this man.  In fact I just spoke with him, albeit, for a minute or two, just half an hour ago.

The man and his wife are accused of severe abuse of their three children.  Police say the couple's three boys, all under the age of 4 and none of them communicative  have been living in utter filthy for some time.  According to charging documents the man and woman's South Salt Lake City apartment is a ghastly disaster.

Allegations that the children were caked with dirt, their apartment littered with garbage, animal feces, and infested with cockroaches.  Police say a 4 year old boy, who suffers from Autism would often cry for hours on end without being tended too.  "Good lord," is all one neighbor could say about the apartment she was allowed into a month ago when the child was perched on the couple's back porch crying uncontrollably.

On the front door is a yellow placard, plastered onto the heavy wooden entrance, "DO NOT ENTER by order of the Salt Lake Health Department," the apartment has been condemned, and no one is allowed inside.

As Photographer Mike DeBarnardo takes pictures of the yellow, ominous sign, I hear rustling inside, the TV droning and someone crunching on what sounds like potato chips.  "wait," I stop Mike in mid sentence, as I stare at the door and hold my palm up to the photographer, "crunch, crunch," someone, it appears, is gazing through the peep hole, and munching on snack food.

Just a few seconds after I knock, the small man with the pasty face and unkempt facial hair answers, "What?" he says in a short, clipped explosion.  "I'm Chris Jones from 2News," I announce, "why are you here?" he retorts.  "Are you Mike," I ask calmly, "Uh....No." he says confidently,
"Well Mike and his wife have been charged with child abuse," I tell him,
"I haven't been charged," he snaps back.
"well you are Mike then?" and with that he slowly creaks his door closed and locks it.

An hour later I will find Mike and his wife, standing outside my office, cap tugged tightly over his head, backpack hugging his shoulder blades.

I head out to meet him, a photographer on my right shoulder, just in case, he hits me or assaults me, at least the exchange is caught on tape, and Hertzke to my left.  "What can I do for you?" I ask calmly.  "How did you get this?" he blasts, thrusting his hand, red and cold from the elements, towards the charging documents I hold in my hands, "from the courthouse, they are public record," I respond.

"Who called you?"  he quickly follows up,
"No one, I check the courts everyday to see if there have been any charges of significance made,"
"Well this is yellow journalism," he says.
"OK," I respond.
"This is none of your business,"
"OK," I repeat.
"I think this is just plain wrong,"
I interrupt, "I'm not here to debate you on the merits of what we do, If you have a concern about the facts of the story, I'll be glad to talk to you about that."
"yes, the facts are wrong," he blurts, "I'm suing the police for violation of my constitutional rights," he begins to rant, "and my wife is disabled," he continues.
"OK, well if you feel those are the facts, I have a camera here right now, we'd love to give you an opportunity to tell your side of the story."
"No," he quickly interrupts, "I'm not granting any interviews," his weary eyes burrow into mine,
"That's fine," I say,
"I just think you are wrong to..."
"I interrupt him again, "I don't think we have anything else to discuss,"  and we both turn and walk away.

This is not the first time someone unhappy with a story I've done has come to my office to accost me.  Last year an older man in a duster, cowboy hat, Bolo tie and a long, grey groomed beard was angry after police detained him.  He had approached me just seconds after I completed a live report and told me he had every intention of killing a police officer.  I told police and they talked to him.

Another man came looking for me because of a story I did about him being charged by police for threatening to kill professors at Salt Lake Community College after receiving a poor grade on an assignment.  We had to post a picture of him at every door with the statement, "DON'T LET THIS MAN IN."

It is disconcerting at times to see people, whom you know by sight, only from their mugshot, waiting for you at your door.  In the past I have been lucky, that none have tried to hurt me, and at that same time, it a good reminder, that the stories we do are indeed, about real people, not just a grainy, out of focus portrait handed to us by police.